Reading Rawlings’ account of his acquisition nauseated Harry. He couldn’t help but compare it to hearing Claire’s account—months earlier. The difference was the emotion. Claire recounted a private hell; Rawlings recited a well calculated plan.

Claire also answered FBI questions. Her accounts mirrored Rawlings; he’d confessed everything to her before the questioning. Never once did either one of them mention actaea pachypoda, or any connection to poison. Months ago, Harry petitioned for blood samples from Jordon Nichols and Simon Johnson. His requests finally came through. It took longer than he expected, which didn’t matter. Since Claire and Rawlings were playing house somewhere in the South Pacific, time wasn’t an issue. The results were irrefutable: Jordon Nichols’ retained blood sample tested positive for actaea pachypoda—Simon Johnson’s did not.

Interestingly, the transcripts of Rawlings’ admissions, which Agent Jackson shared with Harry, also contained information on Simon Johnson. He wasn’t associated with the Sherman Nichols’ case, yet Rawlings included Johnson in his list of confessions. He stated Johnson’s demise was simply a by-product of learning what was possible. Rawlings had learned it was possible to make people disappear. His first choice was by business. If that didn’t work, then there was always plan B. Rawlings utilized the network he’d discovered years ago. This time, he willingly paid the money to have Simon’s plane altered, forcing it to cease functioning in-flight. Rawlings knew Johnson was an accomplished pilot and said he wasn’t sure if Johnson would be able to maneuver out of the situation; nonetheless, he paid to have a job done.

When the case began, Harry thought verification would give him peace. He was wrong. It was just as Amber had said, Rawlings was still out there, and Simon was still dead. There was something else; Harry’s law enforcement gut wouldn’t drop his suspicions. The evidence didn’t match. The NTSB’s report indisputably claimed Simon’s plane was in top notch—inspection worthy—condition. No evidence of tampering was found during their investigation. Why would Rawlings confess to a crime he didn’t commit?

And Jordon Nichols? Harry had more questions than answers. Why would Rawlings admit to knowing about the plan, claim it was never fulfilled, yet have him poisoned? Could it be that Rawlings was trying to mislead Claire? But why plan an auto accident if poisoning were already on the agenda? Was Rawlings just that big on overkill—literally, or was there more?

The back alley attack and threat to Harry’s family also bothered Harry. Why would Rawlings want him off the case and threaten Harry’s child, if he were planning on confessing everything?

Of course there was still London. Perhaps she was the one threatening Harry. Claire said she threatened her child. Did she want him off the case? How did she even know he was on the case? All of the interaction with London alluded to her being blissfully unaware that she was under suspicion. According to Marcus Evergreen, London was only cognizant of the case against Rawlings for the possible recent abduction of Claire Nichols.

The entire country was aware of such allegations. After all, John and Emily Vandersol were still pursuing that angle to anyone who’d listen.

Claire rolled on the large bed, relishing the soft sheets against her skin. After their campout, in the cabin of the boat a few weeks ago, their bed was much more comfortable. Smiling, she reached for the man whose warmth filled her days and nights. Instead, her touch met cool satin. Lingering in her cocoon, she enjoyed the ceiling fan’s gentle breeze as it moved the humid air around the grand bedroom. When she closed her eyes, the scent of his cologne permeated her senses. Beyond her haven, she heard the sounds of morning—birds singing their morning wake-up songs and the ever present surf.

Forcing herself from the heavenly bubble, she reached for her robe and walked toward the veranda. A veil of tropical vegetation filtered the sun’s sultry penetration. Stepping around the fragrant flowers and large lush leaves, she took in the marvelous view. Even after over two months, it still took her breath away. Leaning against the folding wall, she relished the endless blue sky with wisps of white filling the space above the horizon. On most mornings, turquoise dominated. Sometimes, if the sun were just right, the waves sparkled florescent. Farther out, away from the shore and her paradise, the waters darkened. The blue became indigo, purple, or gray, often reminding her of the fog-covered mountains near Palo Alto.

Wearing a white bikini and white lace cover up, she made her way to the front lanai. As her bare feet padded across the smooth bamboo floor, Madeline’s friendly rich voice brought her to present. “Madame el, may I bring you tea?”